The Last Plantagenets (36 page)

The next step was to punish those who had remained loyal to Richard through the brief and inglorious struggle. All who could be accused of a part in the deaths of Thomas of Woodstock and Arundel were called to account and the House was filled with one of the most violent scenes in its history. From both sides came threats and counterthreats, with bitter charges and cries of “Liar!” “Assassin!” and “Traitor!” It was said that as many as twenty gages of battle were on the floor, hurled there by angry hands, and none of them taken up. With a degree of moderation which did him credit, the new king contented himself with demoting those who had received titles from Richard in his last orgy of promotion. The two Hollands ceased to be dukes and became earls again. Edward Plantagenet, who had been made Duke of Aumale, found his honors snipped back to the mere earldom of Rutland. Dorset, the new king’s brother, was deprived of his title of marquis and became again the Earl of Dorset. Scrope, who had been made Earl of Wiltshire, could not be demoted because he had no head left on which to wear laurels.

Arundel, the deposed Archbishop of Canterbury, had landed with Henry at Ravenspur and had ridden with him on his speedy campaign to
raise the country against Richard. He preached from pulpits wherever they went, arrayed in the gorgeous robes of office and wearing his miter, extending in his hands so all could see what he claimed was a bull granted by the Pope offering indulgences to all who joined in the rebellion.

Arundel had announced his resumption of the office of Archbishop of Canterbury as soon as he reached England. However, it was not until Pope Boniface IX, explaining that he had been in ignorance of the full facts when he elevated Walden to the see, issued letters-patent to that effect that Arundel was free to resume his post as primate. Walden had to make a hurried exit from Canterbury, taking all his jewels with him. Arundel took no overt steps until word reached him that Walden had stripped the archiepiscopal palace of furnishings, tapestries, books, carpets, and pictures and had filled six carts with the loot. He then moved rapidly and seized all six of the carts when they reached Saltwood Castle near Hythe and had the contents taken back to Canterbury, where, moreover, the late incumbent’s arms were ripped from the walls and burned. He took immediate steps to see that everything was removed from the episcopal palace at Lambeth which hinted at the existence of an intruder. Walden hurried to the new king to make his peace but he was committed for a time to the Tower of London.

There was a forgiving streak in Arundel which his brother had so sadly lacked. Five years later he used his influence to have Walden appointed Bishop of London, an honor which the latter enjoyed for no more than a year.

Almost immediately after the deposition, rumors spread through the country that Richard had escaped to Scotland where he was raising an army to invade England in the hope of regaining his throne. Another version of the story was that Maudelyn, who was now believed to be a blood connection of Richard’s by the left hand, was impersonating him in the northern kingdom. There was no truth in either story. Richard was being securely guarded in his captivity and Maudelyn was engaged in a conspiracy which would cost him his life.

The importance of retaining good relations with France was realized by the new king and he made up his mind at once that the little queen would make the best wife for his son, Harry of Monmouth. As her marriage with Richard had never been consummated, it would not be
difficult to get an annulment from the Pope, provided the French royal family were in agreement. Young Harry saw Isabella at Windsor before she was removed to Sunning-Hill and he was instantly attracted by the beauty of the twelve-year-old girl. Many years later, when he was ruling England as Henry V, he would marry her youngest sister, Katherine, a match which has been considered one of the greatest of royal romances. But the boy’s infatuation for the wife of the deposed Richard was greater than the love he later displayed for the less beautiful younger sister. He was much distressed when he learned that the slender Isabella regarded him with hostility. The little queen remained strongly loyal to Richard and after his death she refused to consider the match proposed with the son of the new king.

The word was conveyed to her secretly at Sunning-Hill that a conspiracy was afoot to bring Richard back. The noblemen who had been demoted in rank were all involved in it. Their plan was to join forces and seize Windsor, where Henry (who had been weakened by an illness attributed to poison) planned to spend Christmas. Later she was told that Richard had escaped from his prison at Pontefract and would lead the army for his restoration. They talked to her in full round terms and convinced her that 100,000 men would be found under Richard’s standard. Overjoyed and excited at this prospect, the girl was only too happy to promise them her support. She displayed, in fact, the firmness of character of a mature woman and even tore the Lancastrian emblems from the walls where she was confined, replacing them with the White Hart.

But Richard had not escaped and it is doubtful if any whisper of the conspiracy had reached his ears. The leaders of the plot hoped to win public support by a deception. The priest Maudelyn was to play the part of the king. He was to be dressed in royal robes in which his resemblance to the captive at Pontefract would serve to deceive the people. In all respects the plot had been as hastily conceived as might be expected of the men who were to serve as leaders.

The older of the Holland brothers, Thomas, had died two years before from natural causes, an extraordinary thing to happen to any member of this family. His son had been created Duke of Surrey by Richard, but he had been demoted to the earldom of Kent by Henry’s first Parliament. This hotheaded young man seems to have been more active in the conspiracy than his uncle, John Holland, who had been Duke of Exeter before being reduced to the earldom of Huntingdon. The latter’s wife was a daughter of John of Gaunt, which made him Henry’s brother-in-law. John was one of the proudest of men in this arrogant age and, no doubt, he bitterly resented the loss of his higher rank. At any rate, he disregarded his family tie with Henry and threw in his lot with the
conspiratorial ring. Others in the circle were the Earl of Salisbury, who had stood by Richard through thick and thin, and the Earl of Rutland. The latter was a son of Edmund of York and he was so weak and fickle that he betrayed the secret to his father. The latter went to the king and told him what was being planned. Although Henry was still in a weakened condition, he took to horse at once and rode to London to gather his forces.

The plan was doomed to failure, because of the instability of the leadership, before they approached the queen with their glittering promises. All they could count on at the time were a few hundred men of their own, instead of the 100,000 that Richard was supposed to be leading south from Yorkshire. She had no way of judging the truth of their statements and, of course, she was prepared to grasp at any means for Richard’s restoration. She even permitted a proclamation to be used in her name, declaring that she did not recognize Henry of Lancaster as king.

Failing to secure the person of King Henry at Windsor, the band marched to Colnbrook where they encountered a royal force of some strength. Kent was in command and he is said to have fought for three days with courage and skill in holding the bridge at Maidenhead. When finally put to rout, the leaders realized that there was nothing more to be done. They rode off in mad haste and reached Cirencester. Here they left their men-at-arms behind and entered the town, hoping to pass unrecognized. This was a vain hope. They were seized by the townspeople. Kent, Salisbury, Despenser, and the priest Maudelyn were beheaded during the night.

Richard’s half brother, John Holland, had remained near London to keep an eye on developments there. When he learned of the collapse of the plot, he tried to cross the Channel, but the ship was driven back by heavy winds and he was captured at Pleshy. Here he fell into the hands of the Countess of Hereford, the mother of the Bohun sisters and, therefore, mother-in-law of the king. This was unfortunate for John Holland because she was a woman of sternest character. Calling in the two sons of the Earl of Arundel, who had been executed on Tower Hill, to witness the deed, she had Holland beheaded without waiting to try him. His head was raised on the end of a pike over Pleshy Castle and there it remained until the king, in deference to the feelings of his sister, had it sent to her for burial with the body.

This hastily conceived and badly bungled plot cost Richard his life. There had been a strong feeling among Henry’s advisers that there would never be peace in the land as long as the deposed king remained alive, one of the most vehement being the Earl of Warwick, who had
been released from imprisonment and was eager to settle his personal score. Henry had resisted all such pressure. On one occasion, soon after the failure of the restoration plot, a conversation was carried on in his hearing in which the danger of letting the ex-king live was strongly stressed. Henry left in the midst of the talk, saying not a word, and went out to feed his falcons. But he had not missed a word. It is also related that once, after the manner of Henry II in crying out to be relieved of the activities of Thomas à Becket, the new king said at the dinner table to those who sat below him, “Have I no faithful friend who will deliver me of one whose life will be my death, and whose death my life?” This outburst, according to the story, led one Sir Piers Exton to recruit a party of eight who rode at once to Pontefract where Richard was being held.

Whether there is any truth in these anecdotes or not, it is on the official records that among the recommendations laid before the king’s committee on February 9 was one which read: “If Richard, late king, be still living
as it is supposed he is
, order be taken that he be securely guarded.” The result was the publication of an order by the council that “
if he were dead
, he should be shown openly to the people that they might know of it.”

This significant statement was issued on the same day, February 9, 1400.

T
HE first weeks in the month of February were cold and blustery, and snow fell in all parts of Yorkshire. This was in itself a good excuse for people to remain at home of nights, but in the town of Pontefract there was another reason for keeping curfew. The eight towers of the castle looked down on the town and in one of them the king (for Richard was still spoken of as a king) was being held. Because of this, armed men kept watch about the castle when darkness fell—heavy, grumbling guards, plodding through the drifts, muffled to the ears in cloaks of wool and holding their torches low for the sake of the warmth. Any citizen who had not gone decently home to bed would be roughly treated if he fell in the way of these surly fellows.

There was enough contact in secret ways between the garrison and the town to keep the people advised of what went on above them. They knew there was no truth in the rumor that Richard had escaped to Scotland and the equally wild surmise that the prisoner in Pontefract was in reality Richard’s mysterious double, the fair-faced priest, Maude-lyn. No, the deposed king was somewhere in the castle, but so securely and secretly held (as the council at Westminster had ordered) that only his immediate gaolers had ever set eyes on him.

But the people of Pontefract thought they knew more about this than the guards. Peering out from behind their shutters at night, they could see a light in one of the eight towers. “That’s it!” they would say. “That’s where they have him, the poor, foolish king! May God and all the saints preserve him from worse.”

They not only spied at night but they listened, in an almost hypnotic fear of something they might hear. All their lives there had been talk of what had happened one night nearly a century before when all about
Berkeley Castle on the Severn the air had filled suddenly with a bedlam of wild and almost inhuman sound, the cries of a strong man who was dying in torment. The villagers thereabouts had known then that Edward II, who had been held in humiliating captivity at Berkeley, was being done to death in some obscenely barbarous manner.

Everyone knew that Richard, for the sake of peace in the realm, would have to be put out of the way. Such at least was the word brought by travelers from down London way. Such also was the opinion held by the castle guards, speaking in whispers and out of the corner of the mouth. All of them, citizens as well as guards, had given their heads a shake of conviction when word came of the bungled attempt of the Hollands to pave the way to restoration. Now something would have to be done. There must be no more attempts at rebellion, no more uneasiness in low as well as high places. Would Richard’s killers be as brutal as the assassins of the second Edward? This conjecture turned the nights at Pontefract into a time of dread suspense.

It is doubtful if Richard himself could have heard of the ill-timed uprising of his followers. This information would be kept from him on the strictest of orders. If so, he was saved additional fears on that account. But there are always indications of the approach of a tragic finish which a political prisoner can detect, particularly one of high degree who has known only the best of everything. The gaolers become careless and offhanded, even gruffly discourteous. The food is badly cooked and carelessly served. Complaints are brushed aside as though to say, “What boots it if your meat
is
tainted and the bread moldy when you will soon have no need for food of any kind?”

To one as sensitive and imaginative as Richard, the waiting must have been hard to endure. The hours of daylight were spent at the barred windows, if indeed the cell had anything better than an archery slit, wondering if a miracle of second thought on the part of the English people would bring an army to set him free. At night he could not fail to think of the shrieks which had escaped from the walls of Berkeley. He would have, perhaps, some brief intervals of optimistic thought when the hope of French intervention or of a Scottish attack would fill his mind; for was it not the bounden duty of kings to come to the rescue of one of their number? Certainly his father, the brave Black Prince, had believed so.